I Don't Really Hate You
by StraightIsNotMyDivision
Summary: Anderson is kidnapped by Moriarty and verbally tortured, leaving him damaged and an emotional wreck. Sherlock comforts a bit. Disclaimer. None of the characters are mine. Credit to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC for Anderson and the modern adaptation.


"If he isn't killing people now….does it mean he's stopped? I mean if we're all here and in front of him and he's not killing us?" John asked. They were all trapped in a big abandoned building. It was pitch dark. They could barely see each other's faces. All they knew was that Moriarty was literally watching their every move. Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were all trapped.

"No, John it means he's determining who his victim will be." Sherlock muttered.

"Well…he'll pick John because that will get to you the most." Lestrade mumbled. Anderson was just about to nod in agreement when he felt hands grab his arms and pull him backwards. He yelped but was silenced by a cloth tied around his mouth and he had been dragged into the next room.

"Did you hear that? Somebody yelped." Donovan said, noticing the sound but not having seen Anderson's disappearance due to the darkness.

"Okay lets do a head count." Lestrade insisted, wanting to make sure everyone was still there. "Sherlock?" Sherlock muttered a soft 'here'. "John? Sally?" Both got here's. "Anderson?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock looked up from his phone with no connection upon hearing no response. "Anderson isn't here Sherlock. Maybe he wandered off."

Sherlock used the light of his phone to look around. "Sally you said you heard a yelp?" He asked, looking at the place the man was previously standing in. She nodded. "He's the victim. Extra set of footprints behind this trail in the dust. He was gagged and pulled away." He clenched his jaw. This wasn't good. He looked up and around at everyone else before running off, following the tracks, despite the pleading from John not to.

He went down the corridor. He looked at the doors on each side of it. An office building. He finally saw the track lead to the room at the very end of the corridor. He cautiously approached and opened the door. He walked in slowly, keeping his eyes open and a hand on the gun in his pocket. Anderson was there, hanging upside down from his ankles on a rope. He was blind folded, gagged, and handcuffed. "Anderson." Sherlock announced his presence. Anderson stopped squirming. "Stay still, don't move. Don't panic." He mumbled, going towards the other man, but keeping his back turned to him and eyes around the room. He then turned to see a note taped to Anderson's chest. He read it.

_Just a little game Mister Holmes._

_You can have your little idiot back now._

_Tell all your friends to go home. _

_I think I've done enough damage to this one._

_—JM_

Sherlock quickly scanned his eyes over Anderson's body. No visible wounds, no blood. What had he done? He took the blindfold off of him. His eyes opened slowly and met Sherlock's for a moment before quickly looking away. Sherlock knitted his eyebrows in confusion at the behaviour. He took off the gag. "Are you hurt?" He asked him.

"No." He said shortly, though his voice wavered a bit. Sherlock looked around for a key for the handcuffs. It was on a chain around Anderson's neck. He took it off and undid his hands, putting the handcuffs into his coat pocket. "Just a second." He muttered, going to pull the desk over so that he could untie the rope from his ankles. He thought about it for a second. He would fall on his face. He extended a hand. "Hey, Anderson. Hold onto my hand with both of yours."

Anderson glared at the hand before hesitantly taking it and allowing himself to be pulled up some so that when Sherlock untied his feet, they fell straight down and his upper body stayed upright. He stood up now and let go of Sherlock's hand as quickly as he could. He backed away from him and sat in the corner, on the floor.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "What's wrong with you, if he didn't hurt you?"

"He said stuff." Anderson mumbled, looking down at his hands. "He just talked."

"What did he say?" He asked, walking over.

"It isn't your business." Anderson hissed, turning his head away.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock demanded, kneeling in front of him. Anderson said nothing and Sherlock's phone buzzed. Reception was back on, of course. He opened the message and froze. "Anderson…he sent a video. I have to know. Either tell me what he said or I have to watch this."

Anderson tensed but still didn't say anything. Sherlock sighed and sat back turning on the video.

_"I heard you have a little crush on our great detective." Moriarty purred into Anderson's ear as he hung upside down. "Its too bad. Its too bad because he hates you. Literally, I don't think I have ever seen such a hate. He likes ME more than you, and I'm a serial killer." Anderson hung completely still from the rope. "Nobody will ever want you though. Ever. I don't think you'll ever have one person really love you, and that's depressing. I mean, at least I have my hit-men. They're all pretty fond of me. Nobody likes you."_

Sherlock glanced up at Anderson, saw his eyes closed tightly and face contorted in sadness. He turned off the video, not wanting to upset him further. "I don't hate you all that much. I don't like Moriarty at all. " He muttered, trying to be comforting but failing. He saw a couple tears seep out of the man's eyes, likely against his struggle to keep them in. Sherlock moved to sit next to him and put an arm around his shoulder. "Its okay. I don't hate you." He insisted. Anderson froze for a moment before relaxing and lying his head over on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock didn't know what to say. This was certainly not what he had expected to happen. Anderson had feelings for him? He turned to him and put a finger on his chin, turning his face up to look at him. "I don't." He leant forward to press his lips softly against Anderson's lips. "I don't hate you."


End file.
